Page 113

CAPTURED HAWK

WREN

I t has been four days in a hawk’s hood.

Or something so similar I can’t tell the difference.

It’s better than being gagged and bound at least. They are being suspiciously careful with me, but the hood that covers my face does not come off.

I have learned not to speak — the first day I tried, but water was withheld until I fell silent, and then I was rewarded.

Little do the People of Blood know how long I have gone without water, how, high in the mountains where only brackish streams and oil flow, our bodies have adapted to exist in hardship.

But I have grown soft in this green land, and have nothing of value to say in any case.

When he first bent my head back and slipped the hood over my eyes, I was too shocked to protest. I was caught by his words, tried to cut the net of them before he dragged me down.

“You are wrong…” I start to say as he pulls his bone masque back over his face, horns curling out from the sides, eyes disappearing again into its depths.

Trying not to panic, I count my breathing and think back to the stories the oldest bones told me about the world of the others.

This is one of…what is he? A BloodTaster?

The word is correct and not correct — I know I have heard the oldest bones whisper of BloodTasters, but it’s not what they call themselves.

BloodTaster feels like a curse in my mouth, and I wrack my brain for his name.

BloodLetter a voice whispers, faint, a feather on the wind, and tears come unbidden to my eyes.

He is growing so quiet; the spark of soul that could set fire to a forest is now barely enough to light a candle.

I don’t know what to do. And suddenly I feel lost, terribly, irrevocably lost, almost paralyzed by my stupidity, by my selfishness, by the decisions that I’ve made that have brought me to this point.

Had I not fought so hard would the Hunter still be here?

Had I returned with Tahrik, would he still be alive?

Had I tried more in the tunnels, could I have gone back, saved so many souls that spiraled into Silence with no one to Guide them?

Had I not been so drunk on what freedom meant for me, would Lorcan…

I can’t think. I can’t think . My father was strong enough to step away from a life he loved, from the Guiding Knife and Bone Crown, giving up everything for a future he had no part in for the good of the village, for their souls, for their history, for me.

I am not half the BoneKeeper my father was.

Lorcan’s only hope is my unbound hands.

So I try again, confident in his name now, lending strength to my words. “You are wrong, BloodLetter. Your tongue is not tasting truth.”

There is a gasp around me, a collective indrawn breath, and all is silence.

I can’t see him, cut off from the world by a hard, dark leather covering, but I can feel him towering over me.

The space between us warms, his calloused fingers wrapping around my own.

Dragging me to him, he presses his body against mine and whispers viciously in my ear.

“I am not wrong, Binder. I could tell your flavor from a drop of blood in an ocean of water.” He shivers, skin rippling with goosebumps. “But I will taste you again, if you give your wrist willingly.”

He yanks on my hood, rough enough to scrape my skin, and exposes my face to my forehead, then pushes me back from him and stares at me coldly.

I think he wants to see my reaction, make some judgment based on how I respond.

Calmly, I hold my hand out, palm up, and again, he puts the point of the dagger to my skin.

Again the river of blood flows directly to the tiny pool at its base, almost as though it is pulled from my skin there, again his tongue darts out to taste it.

He runs a finger along the edge, cleaning any blood from the blade, and sucks it from his skin.

“SoulBinder I said, and SoulBinder you are.”

“I am a BoneKeeper,” I reply firmly. It is the only thing I have ever truly known about myself.

“I have never heard of a Binder, but it is not what I am.” Truth is clear in my words, and his eyes narrow, before he sings out a command in his liquid language.

Something is thrown to him from beyond my periphery, but it is too quick for me to see, and I keep my colorless eyes locked on his own black ones.

“BoneKeeper you say?” His voice is water on hot rock, and, as he takes a step forward, I unintentionally curl into myself. “What is this word, BoneKeeper?” He pauses within arms reach of me, but comes no closer.

“It just is…I speak for the bones. For their memories. Make their wants and desires known.”

Singing out again, he waits until two of his people bring him Tahrik’s covered body, and lay it on the ground beside us.

He nudges Tahrik with his boot; sickness surges in my stomach, the world spinning around me.

“Speak for this poor soul, then. You bound his unwilling soul to his body, and left both to rot. You are demon-born.”

Eyes wide, I frantically blink back tears. I will not cry in front of this man, I think, and shove my grief into the center of my heart, where it cannot be touched by word or sword. “I did not.” My voice is low, distressed, but steady.

“Then it would not bother you if I drive my sword into his corpse, hmmm?” Lifting his long blade over his head, he watches me as he brings it down, stopping it just before Takrik’s unresisting skin.

“He is no longer there, BloodLetter,” I say, a sob forcing itself through my throat before I can swallow it back.

“He asked to be let go. And so I did. I failed him. I failed him. Your sword will make no difference. He is Silent.” Burying my face in my fands, I offer a silent prayer to the Sun God and the Earth for forgiveness, and deeper still, from the shadows of my heart, the tears of a child to the TriGoddess.

The man above me cocks his head curiously; though I can’t see his face, I can hear almost angry confusion in his voice.

“You will come with us.” Before I can respond, the hood is back and being tightened, only my mouth left free, the rest completely covered.

“You won’t drink our souls with your empty eyes, Binder. ”

Raising my hands to my head, I try to adjust the hood, shift it to some sort of comfort, but he barks at me sharply and I jerk my hands away instantly.

“You don’t need hands where you’re going.

I suggest behaving. You will be presented in the Crimson City, but aren’t required to be whole for the Elders.

Only alive.” His voice drops to a dark whisper of caution, not quite hesitant, but not meant to be overheard.

“Not all around you are as patient as I. This is your only warning.” Raising his voice again, he commands, “Come!” and tows me along behind him.

I trip and stumble, the pace too quick for my unseeing eyes; a swirl of howling races through the air around me, as though wolves are darting in and away from me, snapping their teeth at my skin.

“You choose how you are to be treated, Demon. If you are wise, it will be a quick death on a steady blade once we are home. If not…” he trails off, but does not need to elaborate.

“I am not a Demon, and not a SoulBinder,” I offer helplessly. From my side, unexpectedly close, is a warm, feminine laugh.

“She thinks she is telling the truth at least, Brother.” The woman’s voice is tired, fatigue heavy in her words, but edged with amusement.

“It’s of no concern to us. We cross the pastures, we return home.

And the Eldest will know what to do with this one.

” He nudges me, and I sigh. “Mount up. We have been here too long,” he commands, and there is a flurry of activity around me.

He pauses close to me — I can feel the heat from his skin, can smell warm grass and water from him.

“What should we do with your companion, Binder?” The question is unexpected, and it takes me a moment to reply.

“He is not there anymore,” I repeat in a whisper.

The BloodLetter starts to move away before I can force more words from my tight throat, “but…he dreamed his entire life of water. It would be a great kindness if you would leave him at the water’s edge.

I think he would have wanted that. To sleep by a river, in a bed of grass.

” The words catch on my tongue. I can’t continue.

“Do you wish to say goodbye, Demon?”

I shake my head blindly. “I said my goodbyes when he slipped through my hands.” Then, more softly, “Thank you.”

There is movement of shifting, quiet grunts of movement and the scuffle of shoes on dirt, then I am lifted onto a horse with no ceremony, with a monstrous hard body wrapped around me.

The same amused voice from before speaks quietly from our side.

She must be mounted as well. “Strange Demon, brother,” she notes sardonically.

He grunts in return, thighs tightening around me to urge the horse forward.

“Strange way to treat a Demon,” she calls after him, though her voice is pitched low enough that perhaps only he and I can hear it.

The laughter that follows after, however, echoes clear like a bell as we ride away.